Sometimes I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a volcano.
The silence of the night. Weighs you down. Sometimes it makes it hard to breathe.
I felt like if you whispered then the whole world would hear.
But you knew it couldn’t be true. Could it?
I watched the cold, steady rain fall through the early hours.
The light reflected on the puddles and cracked pavements as daylight bled in.
The streets were empty, the silence broken by an occasional ambulance as it sped up the street . Its lights flashing, siren howling at the crossroads.
Life and death.
In a moment.
I sat by the window.
I’d been up most of the night.
Sleep had become like a fugitive lover you could no longer depend on. Here and then gone, with no guarantees when it would be back.
My brain was running ragged, worrying about everything and nothing all at once. In an exhausting battle with itself.
I’d given up trying to sleep and got myself a coffee. It sat untouched on the window frame. That smell used to give me comfort.
Now, like so much of life, it just drifted past.
A little mountain of silver packaging sat next to the coffee cup, my constant companions. Pills to slow a racing heart, antidepressants, and sleeping pills. The doctor had scared me off the sleeping pills. They were very addictive, so I should take one or two and then stop.
How bad could it be?
Bad.
It felt like I was back at the volcano’s edge again.
I was already hung up on insomnia and everything else. I really didn’t want an addiction to pills to go with it. But I’m not a doctor. Maybe I should have just gone for it.
The room was cold, and I noticed my breath in front of me.
I picked up my notebook. The page screamed back at me. Empty. Line after line. A song unwritten.
Words unsaid.
I looked out the window and saw a milk float making its way up the street.
Had I slipped some gap in time? Who gets milk delivered these days? It made its way up the street but didn’t stop at any houses.
Just kept going.
Was I dreaming?
I caught my reflection in the window. My beard was a little greyer. A few more lines on my face. But I didn’t recognise my eyes.
The brilliant blue was gone. Just dulled and faded.
A scream built up inside me.
My heart raced.
I opened my mouth but no sound came.
Silence.
I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried again.
There was a small rumble, which quickly evaporated to nothing as the breath escaped my lungs.
Emptiness.
Everywhere.
I wanted to dial 999.
Call an ambulance.
Call a doctor.
Call someone. Anyone.
My words choked me as I looked around desperately, my hands at my throat.
I watched as the number 22 bus made its way up the street.
I saw the lights.
People setting about their day.
Travelling into work.
I tapped on the window.
I hit the window as hard as I could, but no one noticed.
I slumped back in my seat, exhausted.
My arms fell heavy to my sides as I felt the sweat rolling down my forehead.
It felt like my head was melting as I looked into the window.
It seemed like the world was shrinking and my face was disappearing.
Into nothing.
I looked around the room.
My guitar stretched out, losing its shape, melting before my eyes.
The room began to bend and stretch, losing all shape. An endless emptiness stretching as far as I could see . In every direction. Forward and back.
The future and the past.
I woke up on the floor.
7 a.m.
I had slept for 15 minutes.
My mouth was dry.
My head ached.
I looked up , and there was no roof.
Just rain.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 